


Fall apart. Please.

by WeNeedARuse



Series: When it's like this. [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, I'm not good at tagging, Interlude, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, literally just another fic about a hand job, sorry - Freeform, this is purely self indulgent, vandermorgan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18529960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: Sometimes Arthur just wants Dutch to fall apart. The way that he does.But even when it’s like this.Dutch is still control.





	Fall apart. Please.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, this in an interlude...in a way.
> 
> It turns out that now I have some sort of plotty idea for this series, my muse has up and left and I can't seem to write what I want to, not properly yet.
> 
> So, instead, have this.
> 
> Sorry!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always and forever welcome, but I’m feeling a little shaky about this one so please be gentle :)

Night. Arthur thinks it might be his favourite time here. When the moon is full and the camp is at rest and the only sounds he can really hear are the rustling of the wind, and the soft lap of the water.

And those footsteps. Of course.

Confident strides. Even tread. Barely a sound but each one making his mark on the world.

Arthur smiles when Dutch stands beside him.

He knows Dutch wants to speak to him. He knows that he wants to ask him what’s wrong. Maybe help, maybe not. Maybe go on a diatribe on how he will make it right, make everything right, for him, for them.

He doesn’t need that tonight.

He needs one thing.

But, of course, Dutch has other plans.

The hand on the back of his neck is a comfort and a curse.

“Taking in the scenery? Or just thinking.” Arthur huffs a laugh and stubs out his cigarette.

“You know I ain’t much for thinking.”

“Don’t you sell yourself short Arthur. You, you are one of our greatest…” Arthur shakes his head, holds up a hand. He doesn’t want to hear it. Sometimes, sometimes he just can’t hear it. 

Sometimes he just wants Dutch at his side, not Dutch Van Der Linde.

There is a difference, to Arthur.

“I know, Dutch.” 

The hand on his neck tightens, just a little. A warning.

Arthur doesn’t apologise, he just lets the tension run from his body. He knows.

Dutch knows.

Fingers curl into the short strands at the back of his head, tug just a little. 

If he pushes him to his knees, Arthur will go willingly, aching bones and all. He closes his eyes and waits. He wonders if Dutch will make good on his promise and ruin him again.

He thinks he might want that.

But

Dutch goes no further.

And so.

Almost without thinking Arthur shifts his body, just a little, slides his hand down Dutch’s chest to his belt and slowly unbuckles it. He can feel Dutch’s soft, sure breaths against his ear as he reaches inside his pants.

Hot.

Oh.

And so hard. 

Sometimes Dutch likes it when he defies him. 

Just a little. 

He strokes him lazy. Like they have all the time in the world. Like someone couldn’t just make their way down this part of the camp and find them. He strokes him slow even as Dutch smirks at him, showing no other emotion. The way he stands, the way he looks, the abject allconsuming power of him...

Sometimes Arthur just wants Dutch to fall apart. The way that he does.

But even when it’s like this.

Dutch is still control. 

Always.

He tightens his grip, presses closer, cheek against cheek now. Dutch’s breaths the only indication that this is doing something for him. Faster, shallow breaths.

Fall apart.

Please.

The night is too quiet. Or maybe Dutch is too quiet. Or maybe Arthur is too desperate. Hard himself, from just the feel of Dutch.

He pulls back, strokes a little faster, wets his lips. 

“How do you want me?” Dutch wouldn’t fuck him out in the open, not any more. They’re no longer young men, and the camp is too grown. But Arthur wants, now. The feel of him in his hand is almost too much. The gaze...it almost hurts. He wants. 

Please.

“On my knees? On my back? Riding you?” Dutch’s hand tightens on the back of his neck.

“Just this will do fine.” 

Oh. Oh you bastard.

Arthur drops his head back, swipes his thumb over the head of Dutch’s cock, and swears under his breath.

Every time.

He thinks he’s got him, and then Dutch throws something else his way.

The slick sound of his hand seems louder now.

And then,

The tension shifts.

Dutch’s hand tightens to pain on his neck, his thumb digs into the hollow at his throat. He’s close, so close Arthur can almost smell it. So close he can see the strain now.

He smiles when fingers push between his lips.

He bites down, just a little. 

Oh.

He loves to watch Dutch come. 

The concentration. The sheer force of his will. How his gaze becomes wild eyed, but only for a split second, before control sets back in. He doesn’t buck, or thrust, or swear or do any of those things. Not tonight.

Not when it’s like this.

Because when it’s like this,

Dutch comes with a snarl.

And Arthur comes silently. 

Awed by the sight.

Just a little.


End file.
